We Don't Belong To Each Other
by willownicajones
Summary: How much of the elusive nuptials of Dan and Serena did we really see?
1. Preamble

A/N: I have never written any fan fiction before, but Dair has forced it out of me. Hopefully everything makes sense, but it would help to say that each chapter is split into two time settings: the first is at Dan and Serena's wedding; the second, what the last episode left out of the five years preceding it.

P.S. Thanks both guests for your reviews! It repeated? That would explain why it was 5,000 words here when in Word it was 2,000 something. Also, my time breaks were deleted, so I fixed that too. Hopefully it will get less confusing once more is posted...to me, it makes sense, because I have it all mapped out, but I'll work hard on that. Also, there is a Dan POV to the preamble, I just thought it would be better as another chapter. I hope that covers everything, I'll try to fix more as it comes along! Keep reviewing, it's really nice. :)

Disclaimer: Nothing, including, unfortunately, Truman Capote's elegant words from Breakfast at Tiffany's, or the characters of Gossip Girl, belong to me.

**preamble**

We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other. He's an independent, and so am I. I don't want to own things until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together. I'm not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it's like.

HOLLY GOLIGHTLY

**DAN AND SERENA'S WEDDING, 2018**

She stepped in the side room. It was her house, after all. She knew where everything was, including him.

She swayed in the doorway, clasping her hands. "Dan."

He looked up, scratching his chin. "Blair."

They were silent for a minute but finally she breathed out slowly and spoke quickly. When she was done, she had little more to say than "Well?"

"Does it matter?" Dan asked.

"But…I'm asking you."

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I mean, does it matter to you? Would you be asking me the same things if you had less to say?"

"Umm," she said, shifting her feet. She was about to speak when she noticed in the corner of her eye the screen of her phone flashing violently. "I should get that."

"It's been like that for a minute."

"Oh." She answered the call, waiting patiently for someone either end of the phone to say something.

The other line spoke first, so she gave them her attention.

**BLAIR, 2013**

Paris.

We had decided, for mutual benefit, to move to the French capital a month or so after our impromptu marriage. We had been given time to adjust to our togetherness and figure how we could work our complicated lives together, and some how Paris came out on top. I can't act as if it wasn't with an indulgent little smile on my part.

It was simple to get into a schedule. As much as we wanted to act as if we were wild and voracious souls, together a fiery demon, it was easier with order. Chuck left in the mornings, early, about eight, eight thirty. He had enough charge at Bass Industries that he did as he pleased. His business in Paris was acquiring yet another hotel, but to be honest, to this day, I am unsure of how the deal ended up.

I would go to the atelier in the afternoon. The morning was spent in mussed up sheets, coffee in one hand, a croissant in another, and books and magazines in my lap. Now and then I would eat breakfast out, all sorts of jams and breads and coffee and fruit surrounding me on a table, smearing up my newspaper. I would have eaten at Tiffany's, but it wasn't the same as New York. Sometimes after breakfast I would go crazy and museum hop, see a film, or just walk for hours. I liked my mornings.

The atelier was a mess, everyday. My job was ambiguous so I dictated to everyone; they were forced to comply to my demands for they feared their termination. I had an office I ignored save for its weekly decoration and to store what I would too ignore. There was paperwork to be done, certainly, but this was done in the evening between bites of coq au vin or a sloppy croque monsieur. As for the designs—they were no longer mine and it was, of universally mutual thought, for the best.

My work spilled little into the weekend, but when it did, I was up for hours, running here and there. Otherwise, it was the only time we really did anything. I would pull Chuck to a museum; we would go out for dinner; I would get an amicable smile as I shopped, and he stared down at his phone.

It was safe to say that we were bored together.

It could have been stopped, really, had it not been for the idiocy of the two of us. Our relationship had never been normal, at any of its stages. We thrived on the craze we brought to each other. And before our marriage we had spent some time together, but most of it was spent apart, lusting after each other and working towards our separate goals. I had always gotten a high off missing Chuck, and he got one from me. Being together—for a while, it would work. But being ripped apart again, oh, the glory of it! That's what it took for us being together to be good again.

I remember the last time I deluded myself with Chuck. It lays in my head, very clear. I tell myself that that day on the rooftop was the day Henry was conceived, because it's the only way I can feel good about myself.

I had gone home early from the atelier. The sun was still golden over our apartment and I felt a little tired, so I walked up to the top of the building, with nothing on but my brown swimsuit bottoms and a large pair of sunglasses. I lay on the hot cement, my head thrown back as violently as the hard ground would allow me, for safety concerns. So I laid there, thinking about things, my eyes drifting closed as the hot sun pressed them down.

I awoke to a slim smile above me. "I found you missing."

What a funny phrase!

"So I came up here to see if you were here."

"Well. I am."

Chuck lay down beside me. "What's with all this?" he asked of my nothingness.

"I'm trying to be French," I said.

"Well," he said, pausing as his hand grazed my chin, "It's working.

That was the last time we had sex were I closed my eyes into oblivion.

The next morning I awoke on Chuck's shifting chest. We lay under a white sheet he had brought up so we could spend the night on the rooftop.

"Darling," he said, "I've got to go. I'll see you this evening." He kissed my lips lightly. "You know, I liked finding you this was last night."  
"I liked it too," I said, reeling from it all.

"All it was missing was some champagne. But—if you quit your job—we could get it right sometime. I can support us, you know," he said quite seriously, "And I'd really like to. I think you'd be happier here at home. We both know designing isn't for you."

"No," I said, "It isn't." I smiled at him in a way that should have exuded just how much I wanted to be alone.

"I'd love to greet you on the rooftop every evening, with the stars or the sun or even snowflakes or pouring rain or hailstones above us." He walked away and down the stairs, his naked torso twisting to smile his little smirk at me before disappearing for the day.

To be honest, I knew he'd changed. I knew he hadn't meant what he said the way anybody with sense took it. But it didn't matter. That Chuck thought my happiness would be found by waiting for him on rooftops was sick.

I pulled the white sheet around me and snuggled my chin into knees and sat for an hour. Yes, I would quit. Chuck had that much sense in him. What I would do after that flew through my head in a phantasm of thoughts and I stood quickly, dizzied by the speed of my rise. Still clutching the sheet, my body swayed lightly as my eyes blurred its sights for just a second before clearing.

In that second, I swear I saw him. His stupid hair and his poorly selected clothes and a damned leather bag swung across his body, bursting full of books.

But I blinked and my eyes cleared and he was gone.

I looked for my dark glasses to put them on before I went down. I found them broken in two on the ground, one of the lenses popped out and smashed. I made my way down the stairs to my closet and dropped the sheet to the floor. I put on some underwear and tight black pants. I found some cute little coral flats, a tight bright blue t shirt and a yellow cardigan. I fluffed my hair in the mirror, patting the ends a little sadly. I found another pair of sunglasses before throwing them down and grabbing instead a big leather bag filled with papers and lipstick and things I couldn't remember putting into it.

I walked down Avenue Montaigne, sliding in and out of Chanel and Dior and Fendi before finding the perfect sunglasses at Chloé. I paid for them quickly and eschewed the packing they tried force on me at the counter. "No," I insisted, "I'll wear them out."

"All right," the girl at the counter said, after nearly forcing tissue paper down my throat.

I bought a coffee and a chocolate croissant and stood by Van Cleef and Arpaels, because it felt the same as Tiffany's, and that's all that mattered.

I chewed slowly but it was still gone too fast, so I sipped even slower. Yet everything still disappeared and I walked away from the window. I kept walking till I came to more familiar streets, the ones I wandered fairly regularly. I came to a salon I had walked by often, staring at the place where pretty girls with gamine crops danced out.

I walked in. I walked to a slim girl with chic sloppy cigarette pants and an apron, cutting off all the hair of an equally pretty Parisienne. "I want that," I said. "No, wait. That's too much. Just, to, the shoulders. No, no, just a few inches past the ears. Flipping in at the ends. No—blunt, a little out. Light bangs."

She stopped her scissors for a second, looking off to space. Then she turned to me. "Certainly, mademoiselle, but first I must finish her hair. Then to you."

So I sat down on one of a row of wooden chairs sitting against the wall. I let one leg fall over the other and stared as her scissors flew over the rest of the girls' hair. It looked so _natural_, I didn't know what to say. The girl in the chair knew the right moment to throw off the cape and stood, flashed me a grin, and walked out the door. She peeked her head through the door again and said, "You're going to love it. Next month, Nathalie?"

"Naturellement!" She grinned the same happy toothy grin every here seemed to have and as the door slammed silently shut she turned to me. "Well, mademoiselle?"

I stood up only to sit down, again throwing my bag at my feet and sighing. Nathalie, as it seems she was called, clipped a cape around my shoulders.

"Well, mademoiselle, a few inches below your ears, blunt but flipped out, and light bangs, no?"

"Naturellement!" I giggled, and she sprayed down my hair.

"Can you take off your sunglasses?"

"No, they'll stay."

"Oh!" she looked at me in the mirror and she sprayed down my hair again. She clipped away, my hair falling down the cape. I might have cried had it not been for my dark glasses; they clouded my sight. It took too much to see through the darkness for me to think about it all.

"So, you are Nathalie?"

"Yes," she paused, looking up from her furious shearing. "Yes, I am Nathalie."

"I am Blair."  
"Blair! How lovely."

We were silent till she finished. "Well, mademoiselle Blair, what do you think?"

"Oh! Well—I, love it. Yes. I do." I fluffed my hair with my hands and shook my head. Not as dramatic as Audrey's chop, but, well, she was in a movie.

I paid Nathalie, who was once against silent, but as I left, I peeked my head through the door, grinning that same stupid happy toothy grin. "Next month?"

"Of course, Blair. I will save your time."

"Oh! What was my time?"

"When you walked in the door."

I thought back and remembered a clock reading 12:24 as I sped into the building. I think it was, anyway. Exactly one month, I thought, and I would be back. I grinned again and let that silent door slam into its frame, and walked and walked.

I came to the old building I had religiously sought out before and smelled all the scents as I opened the heavy doors. I ran up the steps till I came to a landing where a pretty girl sat at a desk, the smoke from her cigarette floating through the tousled strands of her blonde hair. She slumped over the table, one hand against her face pushing up her cheek, the other holding the cigarette, nearly letting it fall to the ash covered table.

She straightened with fear at the sight of me. "Merde! What is it you want!" she exclaimed, rather than asked. Yet she couldn't be bothered to sit up—her body remained in its elegant droop.

"Hi. I'm Blair Waldorf. I want to write for you. Vogue Paris, I mean, not _you_—you seem to have no qualifications. Anything. Goddamn it, anything. Makeup review. Whatever no else will write, because they think they've got rights for better pay and they need money if they're going to live. Or artistic reasons. But those people tend to be horribly…_hippie._"

"I don't think we can do that."

"I've got references. I worked for W."  
She frowned, the cigarette still smoking away. "Well, there is one thing that no one wants to write."

"Well?"

"I'm writing it."

"Oh."  
"Yes, merde, isn't it? Well, you leave me your number. And those references. I'll see what I can do."

"Well, I haven't got the actual references with me."

"Of course not, darling! You can't carry people with you. That's vulgar."

"I meant, I haven't got a sheet of paper with them all written down."

"Haven't you? Usually when someone bursts into Vogue Paris saying, 'I'll write anything, I've got references,' they've come with the sheet."

"I haven't really thought this all through."  
"One of those days? They're the best."

I smiled. "Yes, they are."

"Well, leave me your number anyway. I'll try a little harder."

I walked out of the office a little more embarrassed and a little happier. I headed home, expecting Chuck to be waiting for me. I had wasted a lot of time walking everywhere, and my feet were tired and I was hungry.

Indeed, Chuck was sitting at our dining table, a bottle of Dom Perignon clasped in his hands. "I thought you might meet me on the roof again."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"No, it's all right. Anyway, what happened to your hair?"  
"I cut it."

"Yes, I see that. But why?"

"Oh, I don't know. Don't you like it?"

"You had such beautiful long hair."

I held my bag with both hands and crossed my ankles. "Well, I listened to you."

Chuck grinned broadly. "Well? What have you done now?"

"I quit."

"What? Blair, why would you do that?"  
"You said I should."

"It was a silly dream. I thought it would be pretty to always meet you up on the roof, everyday, no matter what. Where that was your only chore. But your mother wants so much for you to run her company. _Your _company. You're a Waldorf."

"Don't you like to call me a Bass now?"

He smiled. "Yes, I do. But you'll always be Blair Waldorf."

"Yes. I will." I left the room and went to bed. I looked at my phone and scrolled through the messages. They were mostly from the worried head seamstress at the atelier. Fashion week was days away and we still had twelve dresses to be sewn. No one really thought it couldn't be done; worry was just sport. The other message was much more interesting.

"Darling, this is Elodie. Oh, I'm sorry. Never mind, that won't work, I never introduced myself. Merde! Well, I'm blonde, I smoke, and I work at Vogue Paris. I've looked you up, formidable Miss Waldorf. Mrs. Bass, whatever it is you want to be called. Darling, we'll take anything you want to write, especially if you're not asking for any money. Just promise me this, dear—don't let today be just one of those days."

I thought she was finished, but the message displayed time left. "Oh—and please, don't write about that fashion line of yours. It's so vulgar."


	2. Preamble, Part 2

A/N: Dan's POV was a tricky part of the introduction, so it took a while to write. Now that I've gotten past it, though, the more exciting (and more DAIR) part, the actual story, will be much easier to write. So, read, hopefully enjoy, and review-I'm halfway through Chapter 1 so it will be up shortly! THANK YOU!

**DAN, 2013**

I was so goddamned shocked the day Blair announced in front of us all that she and Chuck were getting married. It didn't help that they added, "By the way, it has to be today. Otherwise Chuck might go to jail."

How romantic.

I really thought it would be just another goddamned phase with her. She had those with Chuck. Being together—not being together. I thought she'd get past it all one day, once she got it all out of the rest of her life. Like how she told me she was trying to make herself worthy for Chuck with her internship at W.

How sick.

I thought maybe she thought because she had become someone, it couldn't just be for her. Like since she had always meant to become someone for _him_, now that she was—someone, I mean—she had to be with him. It's the shittiest logic ever, but still. She was good at that.

I thought she would figure it out one day, and run far away from him. I hoped it would be with me, certainly, I could never stop dreaming that. I wouldn't care, though, as long as she ran. But that day when she announced they were getting married in a number of hours, I knew it. She would be stuck with that bastard for the rest of her life, and her bullshit career with her mother's line would be her lifetime's work.

If you think I swear too much now, it's because I do. It's what I learned these past few months. Mostly I just say goddamned, though, because everything probably is. Damned, I mean, and by Our Holy Father himself.

So that day when Blair grinned too happily, I wanted to rip my heart out.

Sure, I had been trying to get too close to Serena; but that was a stupid idea on my part. I genuinely love Serena, and right then I missed her like hell. She was the first girl I ever loved and really meant it like that. Besides, her golden aura still pulled everyone in. I couldn't be excluded just because I'd rather have the brunette. I wanted to love her again, but Serena had this idea we had to be in love again. I thought I'd play along for a while. She'd run away eventually, but at least she'd know I really did love her. Then we could love each other the right way.

It was a stupid idea, because most ideas about love are the worst. Mostly it was bad because I was lying.

That day everything turned the wrong way up. I decided maybe it wasn't that bad of an idea. If I really thought about it, I could love Serena that way. She loved me that way, and maybe I could make her stay.

Only once Serena and I decided we were _together_, she broke the news to me about California. She wanted to go back, she said, she wanted to work with movies again. Maybe act, maybe sit behind the scenes like she did before. She didn't know. She just wanted to try.

"Dan, this will be a great opportunity for you. You should travel, too. That would be good for your writing, you could get another book written. And you could do it all alone for a while, to think everything out just the right way and do what you want. I just want to see if this will work for me. But we'll come back home for each other, too, in the end. Back to New York. It's our home."

I smiled and agreed because at least for a while I wouldn't have to lie, and then I would have time to teach it to myself. I didn't consider that I would have to write to Serena, and that would make it a bigger lie.

Oh well. I would teach myself.

In January she left on a plane to California, leaving a golden kiss on my cheek. I smiled to the ground and waved goodbye. I don't know if she waved back, because I turned around and out the door the second she walked away from me.

In February I left on a plane to Barcelona. Vanessa and I spent a good month drunk on her balcony, glass beer bottles in our hands, our heads thrown back as far as the cement would allow. She was the first person I ever loved because I had figured out how to love someone all on my own, and I couldn't help but have missed her. It felt good to be together again.

The little time we had spent not drunk last month had been spent up by Vanessa filming the obscurest things, me watching her, and her showing me things to watch. Oh, I guess we ate things, too. I thought about starting smoking but Vanessa stopped me.

"Don't become a stereotype, Dan. You've already got it bad for the wrong girl, isn't that enough? And you've been a huge asshole, and we're laying here drunk right now. I should have done something after I found _Inside_. For you not that publishing shit. I could have helped you. I'm the worst friend." I agreed with her every word, which is probably why I wanted to leave.

So I asked Vanessa where to go next. She would know better than anyone.

"Wherever you want, Dan. Do whatever you want. If you're really going to go home to Serena after all this, you better do whatever the hell you want now. It won't last there."

I grinned at her words. I had missed her, like hell. So I packed up my bags and bought one of those Europe-wide train passes for a goddamned long time and I just got on a train.

It turned out to be a big waste of money, because after Antwerp and Bruges and Brussels I went to Paris and stayed there for a long time. I had had this big idea in my head—the kind of trip Serena mentioned—but it ended up going downhill. I don't know why, but once I got to Paris, I just kind of got stuck. So I stayed.

I don't what stuck me. I really don't. I just couldn't leave.

Somehow my utter aloneness inspired me, and for some reason I did start writing again.

I have this freakish propensity to write my life in almost literal terms. Each character is faintly clouded by a different label, but their persona and looks are obviously the same as an acquaintance. Okay, the name doesn't really cloud anything; who was who was always fairly obvious with my not so subtle usage of rhyming and synonyms.

But for some reason the first night I was in Paris I lay in my bed in my hotel and I was driven to write. And there I lay writing and not a single character was stolen from my life. My life had inspired every word yet I did not cheat and make my heroine a flaxen haired goddess called Seraphina nor did she wear headbands and make snarky comments.

In fact, there wasn't even a heroine, really.

I took it to be a sign.

A sign that Paris was good for me, somehow. I still haven't figured out what exactly about the city made it so good, but it was. And a sign that my independence, too, would be good for me. I needed to severe myself from my obsession about the Upper East Side and its inhabitants. If I stopped putting Serena on a pedestal she might stop disappointing me. And if I stopped pretending Blair loved me I might be over it.

The first few days were really little more than a happy whim; I thought if I got started on this new novel then I could move on, but finally I realized it would be better if I truly stayed in the city. So I rented a cheap apartment, one room, with thin walls and a rusty sink.

I had enough money to be fine for a while, but I thought I should prepare myself for earning some, so I wrote a few short stories and a couple non-fiction articles. I prided myself in my avoidance of my favorite subject. I kept them on a flash drive with the workings of my new novel, but I printed paper copies of each article and carried them in my bag, so they would be by my side always. I never ended up publishing them, though. I still have them in a folder under my desk. It's a file folder, a thick one and that, and I figure one day I'll get them all published, call them my "Paris writings" or something stupid like that. Maybe once I'm dead, someone will find them and do it for me.

I started walking far and wide; I woke up one morning planning to walk across the entirety of the city, but I only made it six blocks. I ended up spending the day drinking espresso (in the evening it switched to wine) with a pretty blonde girl who told me she worked at Vogue Paris.

She smiled a lot and smoke even more. We talked about our cities and our families and our jobs. By nighttime she told me she could get one of my stories published in her magazine if I really wanted to. Then she started laughing and slammed her arms and face down on the table. She looked up at me and said, "Nooo, merde, I can't barely get anything I write published."

We were soon kicked out by the barman less because we were obnoxious and more because we had had far too much to drink and he was friendly. I offered to walk her home and she led the way. She then somehow convinced me to let her walk me home, which is a strange, drunken tactic used by many to ensure total strangers can find you the next day. At my door we gave each other strange looks: I slammed the door in her face just as she started to turn away.

The next day we somehow met again, and we properly introduced ourselves. Somehow, in the middle of it all, our names had not yet been a part of the conversation. Dan, I told her, and Elodie, she replied. We became good friends and we swore to never again allow ourselves to become deplorably drunk, or even drunk at all.

I kept walking, though, all throughout the city. One day, I swore I saw Blair standing on a rooftop, clutching a sheet to her chest. I thought she saw me, too. What could I do?

I ran and hid behind the corner of the building I was standing by. I came out again a minute later only to find her gone. I considered it to be an apparition, but I couldn't help but to come back the next day. It must have been, for this time I saw a brunette girl with a bob and dark glasses throwing something off the roof. I didn't look at her too closely, though; I would have had to give enough of an explanation for staring had it actually been Blair.

A few hours later I received a breathless phone call from Elodie. "Merde, Daniel! I just looked you up."  
"Yes?"

"Well, merde, why didn't you just tell me? Had you I would really have offered to get you published."

"That's really sweet, but no thanks. Especially if you had to look it up. I mean, I'm not conceited, I don't think everyone should just _know_ who I am. But if you had already known who I was because you read my book and you loved it or hell even if you hated it but still thought I was good enough for your magazine…"

"Dan, you're rambling."

"Sorry. I do that."  
"I know. It's all right."

"Thanks." I hung up.

The next time we met at our usual time Elodie was early at the café. She sat with her arms crossed. "Dan, you just hung up."

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine," though her arms were still crossed. She had a habit of not fixing her body language with her mood. "Really, I'm sorry. It's just, I met someone else, this time someone who really wanted to write for Vogue. I don't know why I did it but I just decided to look her up. I thought she was just a foolish girl who likes clothes too much—well, I'm sure she is, she wants to write for _Vogue_—but it turned out she really was someone. Merde, my bosses would love if we published her work. Maybe then something of mine could go in as well. Anyway. She hasn't called me back yet. She probably won't and I will remain my un-publishable darling self."

I laughed. She rambled, too. I'm fairly certain this fact is what our friendship is based upon.

"Well, anyway, it just got me thinking—what if you really were someone, too? The way you talked about your writing and yourself and your novel made it sound like you weren't, but I was intrigued. Then I looked you up and there you were, _Dan Humphrey_, looking ever so important."

"You haven't read anything of mine still. What's been published, I mean. Not what I've shown you, that doesn't count." I didn't ask. I _knew_. She couldn't talk to me so apologetically if she had.

"No, darling, I'm sorry. I will, I swear."

"I meant don't."  
"Oh."

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea of me."

"Certainly not."

That conversation halted and it was never started again. My past life was unimportant to the two of us, together, and it was becoming increasingly unimportant to me, an individual entity.

There were only two problems with my new life; problems that were, I feared, interconnected. One: Elodie spoke increasingly of the girl who would allow her to be published, a girl who sounded frighteningly familiar. And two: Serena called with news not of her own, but of the girl I so feared Elodie spoke of.


	3. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm sorry for taking so long to update this! I got busy with graduation, and I figured it probably really was a good idea to focus more on passing with good grades than writing this. But it's here now! I hope you enjoy it. I'm sorry that there hasn't been any Dan/Blair interaction yet, and for spending so much time on the stupid fashion show in this chapter, but it should be obvious that that's coming up next! Thank you so much for all of you who are reading it, especially that brilliant guest who asked about an update and anybody who's commented or followed!

**1**

Oh no, I wouldn't regret that. I'm only sorry you wasted your money on me. Rusty Trawler is too hard a way of earning it.

THE NARRATOR

**DAN AND SERENA'S WEDDING, 2018**

"We are gathered here today," began the officiator.

The whole room smiled as he began to speak, some of the grins more genuine than the others. Serena stared up at Dan, her mouth pulled to show two happy rows of teeth—which were, fortunately, the only part of her not glowing golden. Dan looked back at her with a shy but joyous smile.

He turned to the small crowd of people surrounding them. The first face he met was one of the not genuine; her lips were tight as were her shoulders, shrugging away from the arm around her. It was the arm of his father, which, Dan was happy to note, was only there out of habit. Rufus's face kept turning away from the focus of the room to the shining face of Lily, sitting a foot away from him. If they had been sitting on the same couch, Dan was certain their hands would have found their way to each other.

He looked away from the inevitable couple to the other closest pair in the room. They both smiled sweetly, nonchalant about their presence after some time of absence. Jenny's dark rimmed eyes peeked out of her down turned face with glee and Eric looked just as happy to be back with his friend at a happy affair.

Standing near them were Georgina and Jack, disturbingly and perfectly together. Both smiled at the couple that was the focus of the group, but it was the thin, evilly knowing smile that always graced their faces.

The rest of the group was set in no particular order. Nate, perpetually recently-single, sat casually alone, smiling because it was what one did, mostly at Serena. Dorota was still in the room standing away from everyone, looking happy to be included.

The strangest looks were on the faces of Chuck and Blair. They sat beside each other, only in separate chairs, and despite everything Blair had just told him, they seemed very calm. Chuck kept looking over at little Henry, who sat across the room in his grandmother's lap. The little boy was essentially oblivious to the happenings of the room and was the happiest of them all. Ever so often, Chuck would turn away from his son to look at Blair, and she would look back. They shared a knowing look, a reassuring look, and then they turned their focus back. When Chuck turned away, Blair's face sunk just slightly, as if something returned to her mind at that instant, but then it would perk back up.

Dan turned back after his few second's observations, hearing the officiator continue speaking, about something, it must have been.

"I'm sorry. I can't do it."

"Excuse me?" Serena put her arms down, the ribbons spilling out of her bouquet almost touching the floor.

"I—I can't do it." Dan looked her in the eyes.

It escaped no one's notice that Blair stood slowly and shakily.

**BLAIR, 2013**

As it turns out, the most essential requirement of quitting your job is stating it to someone at least involved in it.

I woke up in my bed alone to the sound of my phone ringing. It was my mother.

"Blair. Where are you? The atelier called me this morning, and apparently you didn't show up yesterday. And it's almost four o'clock today, and you're still not there."

Jesus. Four already? "I'm at my house, mother."

"Why are you still there? And where were you yesterday?"

"I quit."  
"No, you don't."  
"I already did."  
"No, you haven't."

"Mother!"

"You haven't quit, Blair. You've just ignored your responsibility."

"Well, if I never showed up again, I obviously wouldn't work there."

"Blair. Try to be reasonable. Only coke fiends quit their jobs by never showing up again. Get dressed. I'm taking care of things right now, but once you get here, you will get everything under control. It's a mess! The designs are terrible, it doesn't matter how well the seamstress slap them together in how many minutes, fashion week is coming closer every minute, and our show is going to be a disaster."

"I don't want to work there any more. The designs that are terrible are mine, mother. They're awful. I don't know anything about designing, mother. All I know how to do is dress myself and dictate how everybody else should dress."

"I don't care. You've helped make this mess and you're going to fix it"

It was rash, I knew that much. And it was irresponsible. But I didn't know any other way out. This conversation was exactly what I had feared had I gone in myself, try to speak like an adult with my mother. I would be treated like a child again and I would give in. I was about to now.

"I gave you this position because I knew you could do it. You're a Waldorf woman."

"Mother."

"Blair. Please think about it."

"Okay."

"Can you be here in an hour?"  
"Yes."  
She hung up.

I dressed quickly but wavered when I grabbed for the Chloé sunglasses I had bought the day before. I finally snapped them open and shoved them on my face as I ran out the door.

I arrived at the atelier slightly sweaty, and found my mother, pins in mouth, leaning over a seamstress working on a half sewn jacket. "Blair. Good God, you look like a disaster! What happened to your hair? And take those sunglasses off. Your vision, apparently, is impaired enough. Look at these designs! How can we use these for a full collection?"

I folded up the sunglasses and held them in my hands. "Mother. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ignored my responsibilities like that."

She looked up, her glasses sliding down her nose. "I suppose I'll accept it, but if you stopped acting like an immature high schooler, we wouldn't be having these problems."

"I know, mother."

"Good. Now get started on work."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Go around and ask. These people are here every day from dawn to dusk, doing work for your name. Maybe you should be working under them for a change."

"Fine."

"And anyway, I hired a new head designer."  
"But you don't have the hiring and firing power."

"Yes, I do. This company needs someone new in charge of designs if it's going to go anywhere. Actually, this company needs someone new if it's even sort of grasp onto where it is now!"

"But you've stepped down from the company! It's me, now."

"When I still have to come in like this, I will hire who I please."

I looked embarrassedly at my mother. "Fine. Who is it?"

A stupid long tangle of blonde hair and pale legs walked out from behind a pillar. "Hi, Blair."

"I thought I said I never wanted to see you again? How many times do I have to tell you this?"  
"This isn't Manhattan, Blair, it's Paris. You can't ban someone from every city in the world because you think you've got a say in things. Because you don't."

"_I_ am still your boss." I pointed at my chest. "And you have to talk to me about everything you do, if it's for Waldorf Designs."

"Shush, Blair, go scare an incompetent seamstress. There are plenty of those to be found. Jenny will be working with me. I've already approved five of her designs! I keep forgetting how talented she is."

My jaw slackened a little as I saw my mother fawn over another long-legged blonde. She certainly had a type. I rushed off to find something to make myself look marginally occupied.

As much as it bothered me, my mother wasn't stupid, either. She knew how to get things done, if they benefitted her. And it didn't matter what the thing was. She would steamroll over anybody to get what she wanted. Even if it was her daughter. Hell, especially if it was her daughter. I didn't seem to have the attributes that she most desired. Those attributes were physical, naturally. I've already mentioned them. Long blonde hair, long legs. She didn't have them, either, but at least she could run lapping after them.

I finished an embarrassing day slaving after the plebeians' demands in serious need of a good drink. I called the only number I had, that of another annoyingly blonde mess of legs, tan, and smolder. Only she hadn't yet made me want to shoot myself.

"Of course!" she gleamed through the phone. "Only I don't get drunk any more, so a three drink minimum, if that's all right. If you start having too many, it'll tempt me." She paused a second. "Well. Maybe four."

We met at a smart little café she requested, but she wasn't there yet, so I started early with the drinking. What she didn't know couldn't hurt her, and I downed two glasses of bourbon and had another sitting beside me before she pranced through the door.

"Well? Did you give it up for good?"

I looked sadly down at my feet. I had wanted to drink to forget it all, but I had miraculously invited the only person who knew the most embarrassing parts of what I wanted to forget to drink with me.

"Merde, I'm sorry. I was afraid that was what happened when you called me up to drink. Especially since you're drinking bourbon," she motioned towards my glass. "Nobody happy drinks bourbon."

"It's almost fashion week. I couldn't ditch."

She smiled sadly. "Well, maybe you could write anyway. Though this time it might _have _to be about your vulgar little fashion line. Good publicity."

I looked up brightly. "You think? People want to read that?"

"Do a glittery little journal about your show and my editors would lap it up. Make it sound like a smashing party, take silly pictures with your models. Everybody will be once again convinced that fashion is gloriously _fun _and they'll fall in love with it all. Anyway, who're your models? Anybody spectacular enough for Paris _Vogue_?"

"Oh, sure. Cara Delevingne. Karlie Kloss. You know. _The names_. Plus a few of those Eastern European girls. They're everywhere. Oh, and this wretched friend of the new head designer. Agnes something. I thought my mother banished her for doing drugs at one of her shows, but I guess anything as a favor for her new _star_," I spat out.

Elodie looked a little confused so I spilled it all out. Well, a lot anyway. I sneaked in another four bourbons and it all came out pretty easily. Elodie sipped two mysterious drinks rather slowly and listened generously as I expounded on the evils of my mother, her fashion line, and her penchant for everything blonde.

"You should come to _her _show next week. She'd _love _you," I grumbled slightly drunkenly.

"I know you're being awful," Elodie started, "But seem to have good reason for it. Only I _would _love to come. It'd be good exposure. You could take a picture with me and maybe they'd slip it in the editorial."

I'd loaded a lot on her for a good hour and only two drinks. "Kind" was not a thing Blair Waldorf did, but I supposed I might as well start, if I wanted to keep the only friend I'd ever really _made_. "Look. Why don't you really come? I mean it! I'll take a picture, too, only why don't you write the article? You can call me your personal friend and make everything shine, right, and you'll be writing! I'm too pathetic to do anything right now. At least you can."

Elodie looked perplexedly at me. "It's a very lovely thought," she gave in, "Only no one's okayed this little article we made up. I don't know that anyone would go for it if it's not you writing. That's something new, very chic. I don't know that they'd care for me."

"Sure they will! I'll call them up tomorrow. They'll love it."

"All right," Elodie sighed. "If you think it will work. But let's stop talking about all this. Let's talk about something happy! What is making you happy right now?"

I stared at her a minute blankly. She was delightful, but this was too much.

"Merde, fine, I will start. Even though my job is a little merde right now, it is the job I want. And I'm living in Paris now! That's very happy." She was counting on her fingers. "My new apartment-you'll have to stop by sometime, you can help me spruce it up, it's a little drab. Oh! And my new friends. You are making me very happy. You know, my other friend, he is from New York too, Brooklyn?"  
"Brooklyn is hardly New York."

"Isn't it? I thought he said it was."

"Well, whoever _he _is would naturally try to impress a shiny mess of French sex like you, and everybody knows New York. Everybody wants to be from New York. But unfortunately only a select few get to call New York home. And Brooklyn just doesn't cut it."

Elodie laughed. "Oh, I don't think he's trying to charm me. He's a darling handsome boy but he seems hung up on someone else. Things like that don't work out for me."

"Hung up on someone else? Please, your golden locks and scintillating knee caps are just what he's looking for to forget Miss Nobody from nowhere. I'm sure you're miles above whatever sad Brooklyn girl he's pining over."

She looked at me strangely. "Yes. You know, I think you'd like him. It would be fantastic if my two new friends would meet, then we could all be friends together."

I'd had bad experience being a trio with two girls and only one boy to split between us. I'd also had bad experience with boys from Brooklyn.

"Look, you don't have to be friends with anybody. You just seem like someone who wants to know a few more people in the city."

"No, no, it's fine." I swirled the drops of bourbon left in my glass. "But don't mistake that for a go-ahead. I don't care to meet anybody who's the sort of freak I find hard enough to avoid in Manhattan. You'd think they'd be too poor to travel that far, but they seem to be able to pinch pennies to get in your way."

"You're rude when you're drunk, you know that?" Elodie pointed at me. "That's okay, your day sounded like merde."

Fuck. This wasn't drunk Blair. It was just regular Blair, Queen B. The B, of course, stood for Bitch.

I looked at the clock ticking away above the bar. "I really should go. I think my husband's waiting for me. Well, actually, I don't care what he thinks. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't be going. I'll have lots of work to do at the atelier tomorrow. Pre-fashion week continues to be hell on earth." It really was. And it was especially hard, because it wasn't hell on earth imposed by Blair Waldorf. It was hell against Blair, and I seemed to be losing.

"Yes, of course. But you will see about that article, won't you? And we should meet again after work if you have the time. Really, I like having a friend here. They're very hard to find."

I sighed. They were even harder to find for me. I never got out to meet the right kind of people.

We walked towards the door together. "Here," Elodie said. "Why don't you walk me home? That way you'll know where my apartment is, so you can just stop by sometime after work. Nobody wants me for anything, my working hours are pathetic."

I agreed and we walked silently arm in arm down the dark-lit streets. The neighborhood was cheaper than mine, but still nice. I liked it. I thought for a second that maybe if I divorced myself from Chuck and Waldorf Designs maybe I'd hide out somewhere like this. I instinctively slipped my Chloé sunglasses out of my bag and over the bridge of my nose.

We had reached Elodie's building and she pulled out her key. "Oh, silly, you don't need those out now, it's already so dark, no? That's okay, though, I like it. Very fuck-you chic. Anyway, it's apartment three. Call sometime." We kissed each other on the cheek and we parted ways.

When I reached home, Chuck was waiting up for me again. "Out even later."

I had nothing more to say than, "Yes."

"I'm glad you didn't loose more hair. I don't know if I could handle it," he pathetically tried to joke. "Why are you wearing sunglasses? It's so dark."

I blushed red and slid them off. "I'm going to bed, Chuck. The atelier will be busy tomorrow. Fashion week is so close."

"Okay," Chuck said, and I slipped away without another word.

The next morning was as busy as expected, if not more so. Damned Jenny Humphrey had brightened things up for everyone, though, and all the seamstresses spun out her designs by the minute.

"I love it!" my mother squealed. "It's so dark, but still utterly ladylike! Do you think this dress would look good on Cara?" She turned to me, holding up a long, smoldering dress composed of black filigree.

"Sure," I said, not sure why my mother was asking for my opinion. Yesterday I was the spawn of the devil.

Which made _her _the devil.

Right?

"We should work together on the runway design. I've already booked an old apartment building for the show, it's brilliantly run down. There are these big windows that are just perfect for the show goers to sit in front of. We'll go scout it now, Blair, darling, and you'll tell me what you think?"

"All right, mother," I said, and the two of us went right out the doors of the atelier and into the backseat of a big town car waiting for us out front. Mother shouted orders at the driver in the front and then leaned back with a sigh.

"Thank you, Blair, for composing yourself maturely these last two days. You seem to really want to make up for that mess you made the other day."

I didn't know what to say.

But Mother went on. "Blair, I want you to know I really do think you have what it takes to run this company. Just because you need the help of a genius designer-like Jenny Humphrey, darling! Isn't she marvelous?-doesn't mean that you're not essential to everything running smoothly. You've got the taste necessary to make sure that no one's sloughing off on their work. You've got the smarts to control the business parts, too. You've certainly go the social skills to get the right girls wearing our clothes. You've got the image, the persona, _everything _this company wants to be its glorious head. Darling, you're absolutely perfect."

I smiled weakly. "Thanks, Mom."

She grinned right back at me. "You really are, darling. Sometimes I think I talk too much when you mess up a little and not enough when you're doing well. But that's only because when you do well, everybody else tells you how impressive you are. You don't need your mother for that, dear."

Well, yes, I did. Everybody else wasn't my mother. I could care less what they thought. Except for maybe Karl Lagerfeld. He could give his good opinions.

"Anyway, anyway. I have an assignment for you for Fashion Week that I really think you can handle. I know it's tough and so much work when you've never done anything like this before. Trying to take it all on was too much and I shouldn't have given it all to you, after the little experience you've had. Your little rebellion the other day showed me that.

"But I think you can handle this. I want you to get just the _show _together. You know, the seating, the runway, the photographers, the caterers, music. You can get people to help you, of course, and it will just be like planning another of your big parties! You'll be perfect, darling. Next Tuesday we'll have a dress rehearsal with the models, so you'll need to be basically be set up by then. Then Friday the show starts at 3:30. Of course everything will have to be set up a few hours before so we can get the models rushed through make-up and dressed and ready since most of them are coming from other shows. It's a very important, darling, but you can do it."

I looked at her a little helplessly, but she didn't see it. "I'll give you a short tour of everything and what I'm think _now _and then you just get to work! Of course you can come to the atelier to be inspired by the clothes whenever you need."

Our short drive had come to an end and we piled out of the car. Mother pranced to the glass entrance encased in golden oak and pulled out a large key. "Come in, Blair, you'll love it!"

It was sort of nice. It was glamorously rundown, with its elegant black and white checkered floors and a magnificent staircase with gold paint flaking off it in the middle of the enormous room. The ceiling was high with once dainty chandeliers hanging from it-now they were half-broken golden messes, but nonetheless impressive-and there was a large watermark in one of the corners. The walls were bare, a nice dove grey, but some of the paint was peeling off. Other than that, there was nothing but the enormous windows my mother had mentioned.

"Don't you love it? Now, I'm thinking the show should be held down here, of course, but we've rented the whole building for two weeks, so you can hold it wherever you like. There are plenty of rooms to choose from! Do you want a tour, dear, or do you just want to work?"  
"Oh, no, I should work. I'll be fine mother," I lied, and she swept off. I sat at the bottom of the staircase and sighed. How the hell do you set up a fashion show?

I dialed the only number in my phone.

"Yes?"

"Oh, Elodie, thank God you answered. What do you know about fashion shows?"  
"I've seen quite a few."  
"Yes, so have I. But how do you _make _one?"

"Oh, I see. No. I haven't got a clue."

"Neither do I."

I explained my situation.

"Merde," she finally said.

"Look, do you think I could convince your boss to let you come down here for about a week to get this all done? You could do an article about all the work that goes into a show, high light the transformation process. How the magic is made, all that kind of shit."

"I don't think you would have any trouble convincing my bosses to let me run off for a week. They just might not want the article. Or for me to come back."

"Sure they will! Look, I'll even pay you, they don't have to. I'll just convince them how great this article will be. Then you'll make it great, and they'll want to write everything. Please? It will really work."

Elodie paused again. "Well. If you can convince them."

As Blair Waldorf, head of Waldorf Designs, it took little to convince the minor editor who was Elodie's boss that she could make something out of her week with me. She wasn't utterly convinced the article would go anywhere, but she promised she would push it, and besides, she'd let Elodie back once the week was over.

"You're in!" I screeched over the phone. "Come bringing lunch."

A little over an hour later, Elodie tramped in, stomping her wet Frye boots on the nonexistent rug. "It started raining," she explained, a drippy umbrella in one hand, a large brown paper bag in her other, and a lipstick stained cigarette hanging from her mouth. Her straight blonde hair was a little rumpled but her camel colored wrap dress looked perfectly smooth around her golden little body. Shit, I thought, I had become friends with Serena 2.0.

She dropped the umbrella by the door and slipped out of her boots and slide over to me, taking the cigarette out of her mouth. She blew smoke rings around the room and plopped down beside me. "I brought cappuccinos," she said, pulling a recyclable tray out of the bag, "And there are salads and croissants and cheese. And cigarettes, but I don't think you smoke. Do you?"

I shook my head no and took the plastic container of lettuce from her hands.

"Oh, you're missing out, darling. But let's eat." She finished her cigarette and crushed it on the floor before opening up her salad.

"You're going to have to pick that up," I said between bites.

"So! You're bossy when you're not drunk, too?"  
"I'm bossy and bitchy and snobbish all the time. That's my problem."

She smirked and took another bite. We ate without talking for some time.

"We should start planning," I said after a while.

"Right!" She paused before asking, "Well, where are they going to walk?"

"Who? Oh, the models."

"Well, all the big designers are doing them like song and dance numbers, now, you know? I mean the girls don't just walk back and forth in a straight line. They walk in figure eights or in and out of doors or drop in from the ceiling or something. And there's a this really great staircase, so we could use that." I chewed slowly as Elodie looked at me. "Right?" She grimaced.

Fuck, we knew nothing.

We consumed everything Elodie's brown bag had contained (except the last cigarette in the carton she had brought and the black Celiné clutch she had shoved to the bottom) and we had gotten no farther.

"Champagne," I said finally. "There should be champagne."

"Before the show?"

"Yeah," I said weakly.  
It was quiet again.

"I love the windows," Elodie finally said. "We could use those."

"Like the staircase?"

"Yeah," Elodie said weakly.

We sat for a little while longer before I finally said something. "Look, maybe you're right. We can use them both! Okay," I said, sitting up straighter. "We have the chairs in rows on either side of the staircase, right? There's a big path in the middle for all the models to walk through, from the staircase to the door. They walk down the staircase, right? It's a big a hotel! There's a concierge desk, we can put it there," I pointed to the right of the staircase. "The girls walk one by one down the staircase, carrying packages or walking dogs or something or just being hot Parisian girls running around in the afternoon, and they drop their keys off. Then they walk down our little runway, you know, the path to the door. They walk out to the door and alternate going to the left or to the right. But then after the last girl goes through, they starting coming back in, but since it's the end they go faster, right? They walk in two by two. They're all in a jumble, rushing for their keys, fighting over them with the concierge who's handing them out as quick as he can. Then they go walk up the stairs in two straight lines and once the first two girls get to the top they all stop and turn around. Then me and my mother or whoever's walking out at the end, you know, to represent the brand or whatever, can stand in between the two rows and wave and then they can all turn around again and we can all walk up the stairs and leave together."

"Well," said Elodie, "I think I basically get it. But you spoke so fast."  
"And?"

"Yes, it's very chic. But a little complex, no? Will all these clueless models get it?"  
"Sure they will! There's a practice on Tuesday. We'll have all the keys numbered by the model's order, and the girls can wear numbers when we practice so the concierge will know who's who. We can make the tags be big and obvious so as long as each girl knows her number she'll get the right key and be in the right order."

Elodie made a little face and nodded her head. "All right. Let's do it. But no dogs. That's too complicated."

"Okay, whatever. But we'll do it?"

"Yes, of course, it's really your choice."

I leapt up. "Okay! Let's get started. We can order the chairs. How many guests are there?"

After calling my mother we were finally able to figure out how many chairs we'd need and how much to compensate for with champagne and appetizers. My mother had talked about gift bags, too, so there was some more for us to deal with. We started drawing up the plans and figured out what we'd need.

What scared us was the fact that by 7:30 we'd only ordered the chairs and champagne. And we weren't even sure if those things would work out. Once we figured what we wanted the chairs to look like (black classic woodworking with grey velvet cushions) and we found the purveyor who had exactly what we wanted, he was a little shocked with our request.

"You want how many?"  
"Can you not do that? Do you not have that many made?"

"No, no, I'm sure we do. Only in the whole of France. We'll have to pull them out of all the stores across the country. Maybe our stores in the Netherlands and Belgium, too."

"Is that the only problem? TAKE CARE OF IT!" I yelled. Then I hung up.

"Maybe fuck the appetizers? Alcohol is enough of a bother," Elodie said as simultaneously ended her conversation with a caterer.

"Sure, sure," I said. "Only what the hell are we going to do about favors? And the set-up? I mean once we've got all the chairs in here, we've still got to fit in this concierge desk and the key board and all the goddamned keys and their fucking tags and where everybody's going to sit and everything."

Elodie slumped back down to sit on the staircase. "Merde."

"And music! I think-I hope to _God_-Mother's taking care of all the model stuff, you know, the order and what they're wearing and the makeup and the fittings. So that's it for us, right?"

"Yeah, I think. But I really haven't any clue."  
"Me either."

"Do you normally run everything this this closely to the deadline?"

"I don't know. I've never done this before."

"Oh yeah," Elodie said, and sighed.

My phone started ringing. It was my mother. "Blair, darling, I was thinking we might go to dinner. Out to that new restaurant near your apartment? I've got reservations. Bring Chuck, dear, and I'll meet you in an hour."

"But Mother, I'm-"

"I'll see you then, dear." The phone clicked dead.

"How do you feel about dinner, Elodie?"

"I like to eat."

"Let's go."

Neither of us could catch a cab so we started walking towards my apartment. It was a long ways away, of course, so we hoped to catch a cab on the route.

"I really think we can pull this together," Elodie sighed. "But I should start my article. Of course it's only day one so I'll probably end up cutting out everything save for two sentences, but I should still write a good amount, you know? Have something to work from. I think I'll run up to my other friend's apartment."

"You mean the one from Brooklyn? The one who wants in your pants?"

"Yes, he's a writer." She hadn't yet processed the second part. "I swear, he doesn't want in my pants."

"That's what you think, dear. You'll notice it soon enough." We walked for a little ways longer. We almost thought we saw a cab but it turned out to be occupied.

"Wait." I said, stopping for a second. "He's a _writer?_ From Brooklyn?"

"Yes?" Elodie responded with a question. "Come on, we'll be later."

I started walking again. "Those are the worst. What does his hair look like?"

"I don't know, fine?"

"Does it look like it's cut regularly, or, like, ever? Or does he look like...a muppet?"

"I don't understand the question, and I won't respond to it."

I grumbled and crossed my arms as Elodie ran down the only cab we had found the whole evening unoccupied. As I slid into the back seat after her, I starting hating this nameless Brooklynite Elodie was trying to shove down my throat even more. He sounded suspiciously and irritatingly familiar. Either he _was_ the freak I knew, or he was an oblivious dopplegänger. Either way, I didn't care to get to hear any more about him, let alone meet him.

We arrived at the restaurant in just under an hour. My mother surely would be beginning to be annoyed.

"Blair, darling!" she said as she leapt out of the chair at the otherwise empty table a gaunt waiter lead us to. She enveloped me in a hug. "I'm so glad you could make it."

Really?

I slid into the chair to her right and Elodie sat beside me. There was another empty chair to my mother's left.

"Who's this?" she asked, as the three of us sat down.

"This is my friend Elodie. She's helping me with the show."

"Hi. I write for Paris _Vogue_?" Elodie questioned.

"Yes, dear, I've heard of it. We all have." Mother condescendingly took a sip of her water. "Well! What wine would you like, dear?"

"I-I don't care. Who's joining us?" I motioned towards the extra chair.

"Well, I invited Jenny, of course! She certainly deserves a little treat like this, after all the hard work she's done, and I thought she might enjoy catching up with you and Chuck. Only you seem to have left him at home."

"It's a good thing I did, Mother! The last thing anyone needs is for that little skank to be anywhere near either of us, especially him. And especially _together_."

"Hi, Blair, it's good to see you," grinned the object of my words as she approached our table. "I seem to have come just in time?"

"Oh, Jenny, sweetheart, I'm sorry you had to hear that. Blair's just being Blair. But I'm thrilled you made it! You've been doing so well at the atelier these past few days." Mother leapt out of her chair again to clutch Jenny up in a big hug.

I shook slightly with rage. Elodie, who appeared to only somewhat comprehend what all was happening, took a large drink of water and looked down at the table. Maybe I hadn't explained enough to her last night. Oh well. I'd find time to complain tomorrow.

We all were sitting down now, and the waiter came back to take our orders. I hadn't even noticed there were menus, so I looked quick and ordered chicken something. Mother ordered us a bottle of wine to share, and he was off again.

"So, Jenny, how have you been?" My mother turned back to the blonde, as she always did.

"Great!" Her little head bobbed up and down. She still wore too much dark makeup around her eyes, and she still appeared to have a ridiculous amount of white-blonde hair. I couldn't tell how long, though, because it was swept back in a loose chignon. It almost looked nice.

I'm speaking rashly.

"Yeah, London was really nice. I really cleared everything out my system. I got to meet some amazing people and I learned a lot about fashion. I'm really excited to be working again, though. Like a real job? And especially because it's with you. I really got my start with you, and I'm so thankful for that. You've really believed in me for so long."

I made wide eyes at Elodie and took a big swig of my water. Where was the alcohol?

My mother gave me a look before continuing to talk to Jenny. "That's marvelous, darling! Have you been introduced to Elliot? She's Blair's friend, and she works for Paris _Vogue_. She's helping Blair with the show."

"Oh, wow, that's great!" Jenny exclaimed. "You know, if you need any help with anything, I'd be happy to. I've got most of the designing done and there's not much more to instruct the seamstresses with, so while I should probably spend most of my time at the atelier, I've definitely got some free time. So if you wanted."

Elodie began, "That's very sweet-"

While I interrupted, "No thank you."

Elodie started again. "Oh! Right. Anyway, it's lovely to meet you. But my name is Elodie."  
"Of course, Elodie. That does sound a bit more French that Elliot, doesn't it?" My mother said. Jenny just politely smiled.

Finally the waiter came by with a big bottle of wine and four tall glasses. _Thank God_. He took his precious time pouring it out, though, and by the time my glass was filled I was angsty and thirsty enough to drink it in two sips.

My mother smiled tightly at me before turning back to Jenny and starting a private conversation. With me right beside her.

I poured myself some more wine even though you're supposed to wait for the waiter to come back around and drank that quickly too. I started to pour another before Elodie stopped me. "Here. Why don't you have mine? I'm not very thirsty." She switched our glasses.

"All right," I said, and downed it quickly. It was enough wine for five minutes so I sat silently as my mother and Jenny kept giggling and Elodie sat uncomfortably beside me.

The waiter came back soon with our food. I was glad, since I was starving.

"Coq au vin?" he asked. I sat waiting for someone to claim it.

Everyone was staring at me. "What?"

"Blair, that's what you ordered." Elodie nudged gently.

"Oh." The stupid waiter smirked as he set my plate down. After everyone received their food, he turned towards me.

"More wine, miss?"

"Oh, yes, please," I said, right before I shoved a giant spoonful down my throat.

He then turned to Elodie. "Oh, why not?" she said, and he filled her glass up fuller than mine. As he turned away, I downed my glasses. Elodie sighed and switched our glasses. I downed hers pretty quickly, too.

Back to the food.

Jenny looked embarrassed at my behavior. For once, I didn't blame her. I was kind of being a pig. But I didn't care. It was all for show. She's the one who had to deal with it. And my mother.

Jenny started asking Elodie about her life in Paris and pretty quickly she turned to speak about her stupid Brooklyn friend. "He's a writer," she explained.

"That's so cool!" Jenny exclaimed. "My brother, he's a writer, too."

"Oh?" asked Elodie. "Anything I've ever heard of?"

"Maybe, maybe not. _Inside?_ It's pretty good, I guess, but I am his little sister. It got some really good reviews, though, too. It's kind of a little F. Scott Fitzgerald. You know, a glittering novel about old money kids, and how there's really all this dirt hidden under it all. Anyway, the main character is kind of a dick and he's in love with this total bitch-"

I interrupted her. "I've read it. It's not exactly worth your time. There are quite a few blatant grammatical errors, and besides, it's just generally unsophisticated writing. I mean, why is a boy from Brooklyn writing about the Upper East Side? It's not like he knows anything about us." I reached for my wine glass. "Oh? Is this empty?" I filled it up. The wine bottle too was getting a little empty.

"Well, I mean, you don't have to read it, if you don't want to." Jenny said quietly.

"Maybe I will," Elodie smiled. "What's his name?"

"My brother? Dan. Dan Humphrey."

"It's not even a good name," I said, draining my glass and filling it up again. "We should probably get another bottle of wine. You know, Humphrey? Sounds kind of cheap. Sorry Jenny."

"No, it's fine," Jenny said. She cut her food slowly and chewed even slower.

"Blair. What is wrong with you recently? Your little episode a few days ago, and now this? You were really impressing me yesterday and today! And before all this happened, too. But now? What are you doing?"

"I'm just trying to be independent, Mother. Everybody's got this idea about me and I don't like it. I'm just trying to cleanse it out."

"With alcohol and disrespect? That's no cleanse."

I sighed. "I can drink as much as I want. In fact-waiter! Another bottle? Thanks." I took a huge bite. "In fact, if drinking makes you so uncomfortable, I'll just drink it all myself."

"Blair."

"No, no, you better share this one with me. After all, I gave you my share of this bottle." Elodie butted in.

"All right, darling, but then we might have to order another." I waved it off.

"Blair, this isn't okay! You have serious work to do! You can't be drinking like this. Or acting so immaturely."

"It's okay, Mother, I'll figure it out. I already haven't got a clue what I'm supposed to be doing." Mother almost blew fire out her nose.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. Elodie kept testing the volume capacity of her glass with more wine to stop me from getting any. Finally everyone was so uncomfortable that Jenny and my mother made polite farewells, paid the check, and slid out the exit.

"Can I have your wine now? They're gone now and I won't be rude to you."

Elodie glared at me and leaned forward, drinking enough off the top that it wouldn't spill as we switched glasses.

"What's wrong, Blair? I know what's bothering you about your mother, and Jenny, and all this fashion merde, but why are you acting like this?"  
"I don't know," I said, my hand at my temple. "If you're going to judge me, too, then we should probably just start heading home."

"I don't know you very well yet, Blair. I can't help but judge you, sort of. But I do like you a lot and I want to make sure you're okay. You're my first girl friend here in Paris. Merde, if I lose you-phwoot! I'm gone."

I sighed. "I'm sorry. I know I'm immature. But I'm incredibly immature. And I am a huge bitch. Jenny was right."

"Jenny didn't call you a bitch."

My face reddened a little. "I've had a lot of wine. But I am a huge bitch all the time, not only when I'm drunk." I finished the glass Elodie had handed to me and made sure the bottle was empty. It was. "We should head home."  
"Here, I'll catch you a cab," Elodie said as should stood up from the table. "I'll share it with you, you should get dropped off first. So you definitely get home."

It would have taken much more wine to get me _really, really _drunk, but I certainly was. You know. Drunk. But I could basically walk straight and the two of us were able to get out of the restaurant and to the open doors of a cab. Elodie gave her address and had to nudge me a few times, but finally I got mine out too.

When we reached the heavy doors of my building, Elodie opened the door for me and watched to make sure that at the very least, I got in the building. "I'll call you early tomorrow, Blair. We have lots to do. We'll figure it out later, though, okay? Bye." She slid back into the cab and slammed the door. I waved from behind the glass door and made my way up to my apartment.

Chuck was, once again, waiting for me. "You've got to stop coming home like this," he said in his stupid drawl. "Wait. Are you drunk?"

I giggled and rolled my eyes. "A little. But you should know that makes me horny. You should be happy." I walked over to him and sat in his lap and kissed him. I pulled away for a second to whisper, "Right?" before going back in to kiss his neck.

He chuckled and put his arms me. "Oh, I'm very happy."

We ended up having sex in our foyer. The next morning when I woke up I was so angry at myself. _I hate myself I hate myself I hate myself _I whispered, shutting my eyes. I was laying naked on floor in the foyer with only a thin sheet sort of covering me. Chuck must have brought it in last night, though our bedroom wasn't far away and we might have well as just got up and went to bed. I _had _to stop waking up like this. There was a crick in my back and my arm was sort of asleep from me using it as a pillow half the night.

I heard footsteps coming from the bedroom towards me and I covered myself a little more with the sheet, even though I knew it had to be Chuck. "Blair, it's just me. Well, your phone is ringing off the hook, it's on the table there. But I need to go, hotel deals don't just write themselves." He leaned down to kiss me before heading out the door.

I sighed, grabbed the sheet around me and headed towards my phone.

"Oh, Blair, thank _God _you answered, I was getting worried. Where should we meet? We've got a lot to do."

I yawned. I had a slight headache. "Look, why don't you come over here, to my apartment? We'll get it all sorted out before we head off and get things done." I paused. "Look. I'm slightly hungover. Do you have anything you could bring to help that? I really don't wanna go out yet."

"Is coffee enough?"

"I don't know, it's not too bad. I, um, tried to..." How do you say this? "...exercise it off? Last night."

"Oh, that's good. Does it work?"

"What? No, it's not good. By exercised, I mean I had dirty, drunk foyer sex with my asshole husband last night."

"Oh." Elodie paused. "Well. Um, I need to stop by my apartment to change, but then I will come right over."

"Okay, I need to change, too." I laid my head down on the table. "Wait! You need to go to your apartment? Does this mean you're still at Brooklyn boy's apartment? The one who doesn't want in your pants?" I was grinning now.

"We fell asleep writing this stupid article. It was utterly droll."

"Hmmph."

"Some of us weren't drunk."

I frowned. "Bitch move."

"Well, you can handle it. I'll be there soon." Elodie hung up.

I slid the upper half of my body down a little so that I was resting on the table. Then I fell asleep.

"Oh, Blair," I heard sometime later. I looked up to see Elodie shaking me awake. "You should get dressed. I brought some intense coffee, we can get started soon."

I sighed. Elodie was dressed all French-sexy again. She was wearing a long-sleeved white tee shirt and a tight black pencil skirt with some Louboutins. How was I supposed to compete with that?

I went to my room and grabbed the first thing I saw, a kelly-green long-sleeved shirt dress, and threw it on. I grabbed some shoes and a thin blue belt and went out to sit at the table and put them on. "Maybe you can just wear some fucking jeans next time? I'm all hung over, and I already look shitty next to you anyway, so I look worse."

Elodie had already started up another cigarette. "I think you look cute."

"Whatever," I sighed. Maybe I could find a really ugly, un-chic girl and become friends with her. I was always outshone by my friends.

"Really, you are. But anyway-work!"

We drank up the coffee Elodie had brought and together we made a list of all the things we needed.  
1. 2 Large concierge-like desks  
2. 50 Keys  
3. 50 Numbered key chains  
4. 4 Large gold vases  
5. Flower arrangements for said gold vases  
6. Pictures for the walls  
7. Someone to do music  
8. Someone to do lighting  
9. A fake concierge  
10. Waiters for the champagne

"We need _favors_, too," I wailed at Elodie. "Look at everything we have to do!"

"For half of this we can just go to a flea market. Desks, vases, pictures, keys. Okay, only four things. But here. Okay, that takes off 1, 2, 4, and 6 from the list. Key chains-we can order those from somewhere. And flowers, once we have the vases it will be easy to figure out what we want, just order them. Music, we can just do a string quartet, no? And natural lighting! We'll use natural lighting. And I'm sure we can round up some model boys to be our concierge and waiters. I mean, we're just going to be serving champagne from one of the desks, right? How hard can that be?"

I nodded slowly. "But as gets closer we're going to realize we forgot half the stuff and it's going to be a huge mess."

"No, it won't, I promise. And if we get a little over our heads later we can just call Jenny! She said she would love to help."

I grimaced. "We'll see."

Elodie rushed us off to an enormous flea market that incredibly had basically what we were looking for. We found two big desks-they weren't really anything a like, but at least they were big. They'd work. Elodie found a gigantic bag of old keys; there had to be at least 50. As for vases, we found one gold one, and three silver ones. They were all big enough but didn't match at all, but we figured it could go for artistic. Pictures were easy to find. We picked out a few big ones and a couple more small ones with sturdy black frames and figured their jumbledness would make it really look like a hotel lobby.

We had requested everything to be delivered to our building, so we took a slow walk over the river to find somewhere to eat. It was hot and late in the afternoon and we were hungry.

"Damn key board!" I screeched to a halt. "We need a keyboard. And we still haven't thought up any favors. Why do we even need favors? Can't they just deal with looking at clothes without a reward? And seating! Once we get all those chairs-if they ever come, that is-we have to put people in goddamned seats."

"Blair, calm down. Look, we'll sit and eat and talk about some of it, okay?"

We made our way towards the first outdoor café we saw and sat down. "It's damned bright out, Blair. Did you bring your cute little Chloé sunglasses? Now is perfect for them."

I dug in my bag. "I think I left them on my nightstand or something."

"Oh. Well, whatever." Elodie lit a cigarette and hailed down a waiter. We ordered sandwiches and frites and starting making phone calls.

Our food came in the middle of our calls so for sometime we only half-ate it. Finally, though, we both hung up and we shoved the food down our throats.

"Well? What did you get done?" Elodie asked chewing a frite.

"I've found a string quartet. Brilliant idea, by the way. I also hired a model to be our concierge. I said I didn't care what he looked like, basically, or how old he was, as long as he was the kind of guy who Prada would hire. And I'll know if they're screwing me over, so they better live up to that."

"We've got an appointment to look at flowers this afternoon, and I ordered 50 numbered key rings, 1-50. They should arrive at my apartment tomorrow. Plus, I called Jean-Luc-he works at Paris _Vogue _with me-and he said he can make us a key board. He's very crafty, he built his own desk. He owed me a favor for an incident with a girl from accounting. Don't ask."

I shrugged. "Great! So all we need to arrange are waiters and favors." I took a big bite of my sandwich. "And that flower appointment. Then we have to do all the real work."

Elodie nodded and pushed a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

"Mademoiselle," said a dashing waiter more to Elodie than to me. "Was there anything else you wanted? Coffee, or dessert?"

"No, no, than-"

"Speak for yourself, Elodie." I turned to the waiter. "I would love dessert! Do you have macarons? Great. I'd like four pistachio ones. We'll share." He smiled and walked away to get our order.

Elodie chewed on another frite and waited until he was long gone. "Blair, what are you doing?"

"He's very cute."  
"Yes, that's fine, but you're being suspicious."

"Am not. Anyway, he thought you were hot." The waiter came back with a plate of macarons and sat them down. "Oh, you're back already? Don't you think she's hot?"

He blinked a second. "Well. Yes."

"Great! So you want to go to dinner or something with her?"

"I mean...if she'd like."

"She'd _love _to. Only, see, the thing is, we need a favor. Next Friday, can you round up nine of your other waiter friends-they don't have to be quite as dashing as you, but decent looking-and serve champagne at our fashion show? Just wear your waiter clothes, it will be fine. We'll instruct you there. Great! I'll write down the address, you show up at 2:00."

He smiled politely and took the napkin I had just scribbled on. "Sure, I'm sure I can do it."

"Brilliant. Elodie will arrange a date with you once your task has been completed." Elodie smiled politely as he walked away, glancing back at us with a puzzled look on his face. I waved.

"Blair. You just whored me out."  
"I'm sorry. You don't have to show up."

"No, I-"

"Oh, you mean you want to?"

Elodie sighed. "Whatever. We'll pull it all together."

After our late lunch we wandered back to the building to take pictures of it for Elodie's article. "A before, you know, so the after looks extra stunning?" she said, leaning in to get a better shot of the staircase.

"Sure."

Though it was getting late, we made our way to the appointment Elodie had arranged with the florist. He was old and grisly but very sweet and we finally got through to him _when_ we needed the flower and how many and what colors and kinds, so when we finished it was even later.

"I should go," Elodie said. "I've got writing to do."

"Sure you do," I grinned at her. "Why don't I walk you to your apartment."  
"I'm not going to my apartment," Elodie said.

"I know."  
"Oh, stop it, Blair. When you meet him you'll know what I mean."  
"I don't plan on meeting him, but that's all right. Maybe if you actually go on a date with this waiter fellow I'll believe you."

"I was thinking about that. Do you think he'll actually show up? We should probably go back to make sure he'll come."

I hadn't considered that. "Probably. We'll worry about that tomorrow."

"You've finally relaxed a bit. I'm glad."

"It's a good thing my closest friend is very competent."

Elodie paused as she tapped a cigarette out of the box. "I'm your closest friend?"

I pause to wait for her to light it. "Well. I guess. I don't know anyone here, except for Chuck and my mom and all the seamstresses at the atelier and now you." _And Jenny_, I didn't say. But I was relaxed now.

"You're _darling_," Elodie said and hugged me quickly. I wasn't one for these sort of interactions but her casual chicness could pull anything off. "Don't worry, I'll make you new friends."

"Stop it with Brooklyn boy all ready."

"I wasn't even thinking of him. I was thinking all the people at my work. You'll have to meet Jean-Luc, who's building us a keyboard? He's very nice, even if he's only building it so I'll keep quiet about him and Violette. And there are a few other girls who are very nice. We'll get them on the list to your fashion show or you'll come to one of our parties or something."

I looked at her sadly. "It's a very nice thought, Elodie, but I don't have friends."

"Sure you do! There's me, and, well, you sort of said something about a friend at home...Sabrina? Seraphina?"

"Serena. She doesn't count, because we've been friends since we were little kids. The only friends I have have known me since I was a little kid."

"You've never made a friend?"

"Well, I made one once. It didn't work out very well."

Elodie exhaled a cloud of smoke and made a little smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, Blair. I'm not to far from here." She waved and walked off down the street. I walked a few more blocks before catching a cab.

Once again Chuck was waiting for me at home. Didn't he have anything better to do? I didn't recall him doing this before.

"Hi, Blair, sweetheart," he said.

I scoffed and went straight to our room. I changed quickly and threw on a nightgown, turning the light off as I slide into bed. Chuck came in ten minutes later, snuggling up to me. "Something wrong?" he asked, kissing me on the cheek. I remained silent, so finally he sighed and whispered, "Goodnight."

I woke up terribly late the next morning to find my phone ringing incessantly. "Blair!" Elodie yelled as soon as I picked up.

"What? God, I just woke up."

"Really? Well, the chairs and everything we ordered from the flea market came today. I guess they kept trying to call you, but you didn't answer, so finally they called me. Only once I got down here I realized I didn't have a key. So hurry, please? Merde, there are so many chairs!"

"Sure, sure," I said, hanging up on her and pulling a hot pink and red shift chiffon shift out of my closet and pulling it over my head. I grabbed some shoes and my bag and had almost left before remembering my sunglasses. Yesterday had been so bright.

I caught a cab right away and sped down to met Elodie, checking three times to make sure I had the key. It was stowed safely away in my bag but nonetheless I was worried I would arrive without it.

The building was on a small side street, and the moving vehicles filled with all we had ordered took up most of the road, so I had the cab stop at the main road and I walked a block. Elodie's face lit up as she saw me waving a golden key in my hand, and she nudged the moving man beside her.

Once the doors were unlocked and everything was moved inside, I sighed. It looked like a disaster. The chairs were stacked six together, and the men hadn't bothered to ask where we wanted the enormous desks. Elodie and I both tried to push at them but they wouldn't budge.

"I think we'll need someone to help us. We can't move these on our own and all these chairs will take hours to put where you want them."

"This is such a plebeian task," I moaned. "You would think that we could hire someone to do this all."

Elodie ignored me. "Maybe we should ask Jenny to help us? She offered."

"The last person I would _ever _ask for help is Jenny Humphrey. Try again." I glared at Elodie. She rolled her eyes and walked off, tapping away at her phone.

We spent a whole hour of work just unstacking the chairs. We were done with a good three-fourths of them, too, when I heard the door open. I swung around to see who it was as Elodie walked towards the door with a grin on her face. My knees began to shake with a mixture of hatred and fear as I saw who it was.

"Dan?" I said, trying as hard as I could to let the disgust crawl out of my voice.


End file.
